“Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness.” ~ Alice Walker.

It hit me this week that I am not familiar with my children’s (now adults) handwriting.  It was when I was reading over something my father had written in 1992 about the town I grew up in, in Jamaica.  Those who were taught by him were familiar with his left-slanting scribble, a kind of joined up script (not true cursive).  He was one of those who was a leftie by nature and a rightie by force. But whereas I can recognize his, my mother’s, and any of my siblings’ handwriting, could I say the same for my own children?  Who writes anymore?

So much has changed in society.  We no longer look forward to the arrival of the mail, hoping that we receive a letter from a loved one.  In my childhood living in Jamaica, the commonest form of letters coming from ‘abroad’ or ‘farrin’ (foreign) were those blue, trifold airmail letters (aerograms?) that became an envelope sealed with a lick along three edges.  These you would have to open carefully, as the writer usually squeezed as many words as possible, and a rough tear would have you piecing it back together!

My mother was the creator of the original ‘textese’ (I had to google that term), the use of abbreviations to replace whole sentences.  When she wrote LOL she meant lots of love.  TNT was ‘till next time’. Sometimes her abbreviations were so cryptic it took days (well maybe hours) of musing to finally figure out what she was saying, or which relatives she was referring to.  Hint – if there was a U and an A, it was probably one of your Aunts and Uncles! Soon after I left home to study nursing in the UK, one of her letters closed with a lengthy message: ‘YDHTWEW’.  That took a minute.  My father had maintained a weekly correspondence with his mother from the time we arrived in Jamaica until her death some 25 years later.  My brother, when he left home, tried to follow that example.  So my mother was reassuring me (and saving me the stress of trying to find something to write about) and letting me know ‘You Don’t Have To Write Every Week!’

Her letters could be a mix of family news, a weather report, a description of her latest success at transplanting flowers, and if you were lucky perhaps for your birthday, you would get a closing paragraph written by my father.  This of course was not his choice, his wife would have gently nudged him to do so.  She was a great letter-writer, keeping in touch with many of her friends from over the years, long into her retirement.

I recently reread a letter she had written to my husband (after we had split up).  Theirs was an interesting relationship, as he never failed to challenge my parents to a debate whenever they came to visit.  He was strong in his views, and convinced that he could persuade my father, the life-long Christian, of the foolishness of faith, of the irrationality of belief in a Divine Creator.  This didn’t trouble my father, as his own faith was unshakeable, and he could quietly but firmly refute any challenges.  I was amused to read in my mother’s letter, so many years later, a closing reminder to him that he should continue to have his opinions, but he should let other people keep their own! I doubt he took that to heart!

There is something about seeing something handwritten that connects you to the writer, something these typed manuscripts lack.  This week as I reread my father’s handwriting I heard his voice, saw his fingers (the funny little finger that had not been reset properly after a break), felt his presence.  The power of the written word.

My own handwriting has deteriorated considerably over the years.  We do so little writing anymore.  And yet I still have notebooks filled with scribbling.  When I want to get my thoughts in order I find I create better when I write by hand.  We teach students that handwritten notes connect facts to memory better than the autopilot of typed notes.  Something about the motion of the hand, the arm, sends the information up to the memory center of the brain, makes it stick.

Poems, rhymes and lyrics are other means of committing words to memory.  Most of us can still recite accurately poems we learned in childhood.  Acronyms, mnemonics, these are ways we trick the brain into remembering weird facts.  But poetry can do so much more.  This week I read the work of a poet who just died.  The lines were so powerful, they have inspired many to live their truth, to face their demons, to battle through mental illness.  Just through poetry! Another poet (Danny White), in describing the works of Andrea Gibson, wrote that her pen was ‘…dipped in cosmic ink, a voice so authentic it could have been wombed in the stars…’

I have long thought that we need poets now more than ever.  In the current turmoil, where words are thrown about, lies are mixed with half-truths to confuse and distract, we need the clarity of a poet to pierce through the misinformation and remind us of what is important.  We need the wordsmiths to cleverly capture the essence of the world around us, to lead us back into decency, into humanity, into respect for each other. In one of Andrea Gibson’s poems she wrote: ‘even when the truth isn’t hopeful, the telling of it is’. 

In a week where old hidden secrets are threatening to break through the lies and distractions, we are reminded that for some the truth is painful.  In all the sordid mess of powerful men’s abuse of young girls there are wounded souls, women who have to learn how to value themselves after they have been treated like disposable dolls, made to believe their only worth is their physical appearance.  For them the wounds are deep, and all of the headlines are reminders of a time in their lives they would rather forget. Let us hold a space for their healing, and support those who fight trafficking and the abuse of young women today.

This Friday morning may you find a poet who can inspire you, who can soothe you, who can raise your consciousness higher. May we find a way to forgive ourselves for any of the foolish things we may have done in our own youth.  May we teach those who follow us the importance of recognizing their worth, their value, their uniqueness.  And if you can, get out your pen and paper, and write something! It just might be the release you need!

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.